As I lean over my desk, slumped between piles of textbooks and scrawled notes, the weight of my schoolwork drags down my mind. The pressure to excel academically and carve out a niche in the competitive university environment sometimes becomes overwhelming. Yet amidst the chaos of deadlines and exams, an old song unexpectedly pierces the drudgery. The rich, sweeping sounds of “Belle” from Beauty and the Beast sweep me, in the blink of an eye, from the chill of my dorm room to one of wonder and magic. In an instant, I am no longer a struggling student trying to find her place, but a capable, independent young woman, venturing out into the world’s possibilities. The burden of academic intensity and the pressure to conform to societal norms melt away, replaced by a sense of empowerment, joy, and pure fantasy.
It’s 2:17 a.m., and here, time—so rigid during daylight, dictated by the unyielding rhythm of schedules and the steady ticking of laboratory clocks—has become fluid, expanding and contracting with the beat of my thoughts. I sit cross-legged on the windowsill of my Caltech dorm, my knees pressed against the cold glass, staring out at a city that sparkles with flickering lights and unformed aspirations. In the stillness of these early hours, with a mug of tea cooling beside me, the world falls quiet enough for the oldest questions to resonate more powerfully: What is love, if it even exists?
Today, I want to talk about a figure that we too often take for granted: coaches, instructors, guides who surround us and who, in one way or another, transform our lives. They are like sculptors who, with patience and dedication, shape the clay that we are, smoothing the edges with the chisel and helping us find a shape that we often cannot see on our own. And yet, we never thank them enough.
I died, and it wasn’t from pain, or old age, or illness. I died, and it wasn’t from mourning, from ending, from longing, from joy. I died, and it wasn’t sadness, hate, work. I died, and it wasn’t in past lives or future lives. I died, and it wasn’t from anguish, loneliness, bitterness. I died! I died of being me.
During my time at Caltech, I’ve noticed that I often use the term “BUBBLE,” as in phrases like “I’m in my bubble of things to do,” “Caltech Bubble,” or “problem sets bubble.” Essentially, it’s a closed, limiting space, even though deep down, I know it’s not.
